Into the Blue
by ProcurerFaith
Summary: Repost. Sam fights his way to the lake's surface, his lungs burning and his mind a confused jumble. When he breaks the surface of the water, Dean is nowhere to be seen. What happened to their prey? Can Sam find Dean and figure out what's happening to him?


_**Disclaimer**_: **'Supernatural' was created by Eric Kripke. I do not own the TV show 'Supernatural' or the characters portrayed therein. I am making no money from this fic (but if Mr Kripke feels like giving a girl a break into writing, she'd be more than happy to oblige! XD**

_Author's note: Thanks for stopping by! Your time is very much appreciated. I hope I can entertain you for just a little bit :)_

_Edit: I've been told off for not providing enough warning about the end of this fic. My apologies; I didn't want to do that because of the naure of the opening, but never mind. This fic involves character death and is...well...pretty damn tragic D:_

* * *

_**Into the Blue**_

Dark blue – almost black – water above him, the blue-grey sky flickering just out of reach, his lungs burning as though there were hot coal within them…

As Sam approached the surface of the water, the light grew brighter, and he could see the bubbles in the water made by the underwater plant life around him, though it was far from his primary concern. He was mere seconds away from letting go of his one last breath when he finally burst out of the water. He flailed for a moment in the lake, taking deep, gasping breaths of air.

He had been trained well, and trod water while he panted and attempted to find his bearings. He looked around him only to find there was nothing but open water; the jetty was a good four or five hundred feet away and there were no boats to be seen. More worryingly, there was no sign of Dean.

The water lapped at his chest and Sam looked down, still waiting for his breathing to normalise. As he did so, he saw the red patch growing on his shirt around his left shoulder. He pulled his long, wet hair away from his face, and pain shot through his head. Taking his hands away from his hair, Sam noticed that the left hand was smothered in blood. He pulled a face and put his fingers to his hairline so as to probe the wound.

He must have hit his head on the way down.

He paid it little heed; it was more important that he get to the jetty and find out what had happened to Dean. He'd been here when he went down, Sam was sure of it, and he couldn't afford to rest and take a breath until he knew Dean was safe.

Taking one last good look around, Sam dived forward in the water and swam back to the jetty. It felt like a long journey; after all, he'd hit his head. He'd also lost his brother and presumably the kappa they'd been hunting, which didn't do much for his mood as he reached up to the jetty and pulled himself awkwardly out of the water.

If he'd lost the kappa then there was a high likelihood it was still out there; Sam knew he had to get out of the proximity of the water and back to the lake house. He moved quickly, trying to avoid being seen as he headed, not for the main house, but for the boathouse, only slightly further up the bank from the lake. It was likely that Dean would have retreated there if he'd been able to – although Sam was concerned as to why he hadn't been nearby when he emerged from the water.

Once enclosed in the boat house, Sam looked around for Dean, only to find him as absent here as he had been on the jetty. Still disoriented, and perhaps not thinking entirely straight, Sam decided that his safest bet for now was to call him. Sam hid behind a tarpaulin-covered Whitehall rowboat and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. To his disappointment, but not surprise, it dripped with as much water as the rest of him. He mouthed a swearword and shook it; the case made a squelching noise and Sam rolled his eyes.

Still, it appeared to have power running through it and it was receiving a signal – albeit poor – so he decided to try his luck. He just hoped that Dean wasn't finding it necessary to hide, otherwise he was about to blow his brother's cover.

To Sam's cheer, his phone connected to Dean's – but his brother's phone just rang and rang and rang. There was no answer, and that alone filled Sam with dread. It either meant that he was in such a dire situation that he couldn't answer it, or that he wasn't anywhere near it. Knowing Dean, scenario two wasn't likely unless scenario one was true. Given the surprising strength of the kappa, Sam felt a stinging thread of fear as he realised what that might actually mean. He ended the call quickly, and tried again.

This time, somebody answered – but they did not speak straight away.

"Dean?" Sam asked, his voice quiet.

"You've got to be shitting me. Who is this?" Dean said. He sounded slightly worse for wear, and Sam could hear people talking in the background.

"What do you mean, who is it? It's me - Sam. Are you okay? Where are you?"

"What? I can't hear you," Dean replied. Sam's frown slid down his brow almost without him noticing.

"Where are you?" Sam asked again. He heard Dean mutter something unintelligible and then the call ended abruptly.

"Damn…crappy phone! Next time, we're getting a more durable model," Sam said to himself, his voice full of irritation. Still, at least Dean was alive – although he didn't sound exactly okay. Mind you, he didn't sound like he was in danger either and this left Sam with some more troubling questions.

Why hadn't Dean stayed with him when he went under? How had he managed to get away so fast?

And at the third question, Sam baulked.

Was he stuck in some God-awful time loop, or alternate universe or something like that again? The idea filled him with dread- he wasn't sure he could take that again. He still woke with nightmares of experiences Dean didn't remember, but that he remembered all too clearly. He'd barely recovered from his first trip into that kind of madness, and was pretty sure a second time would be even more of a devastating drain on his reserves of strength.

* * *

Leaning forward on his stool, Dean slammed his glass down on the bar and said,

"Fill her up."

"Haven't you had enough?" said the barman to Dean as he wiped out a glass with a teacloth. Dean glanced up at him, smirked and looked away, rubbing his face.

"Oh, I've had enough all right."

He'd been sitting in the bar only a short while, but had been ordering whiskeys like it was the last night of Earth's existence.

"Isn't anybody at home worried abut you?" the barman asked.

"Nope," Dean said instantly as the barman provided him with another double, which he drank down quickly.

"So who was that on the phone?" the barkeep prodded. Dean slammed his glass down again and said,

"Wrong number. A _really_ wrong number. One more for the road."

"You know I've got a duty of care for you, right?" the barkeep said, unmoving. Dean shrugged.

"Never bothered my Dad any," he said, his voice slurring slightly.

"How about an orange juice?" prompted the barkeep.

"How about another bourbon?"

"How about no?"

"How about I kick your ass?" Dean asked angrily. The barman looked unimpressed.

"How about I give you an orange juice and if you sober up a little in the next hour I'll think about giving you another whiskey?"

"…Fine."

Dean took the orange juice tetchily and walked over to a corner table, where he threw himself into a chair and looked grudgingly at the juice before him.

It was a long walk back to the motel for Sam. He'd tried thumbing a ride at various points along the main road, but he hadn't had any takers. He suspected that passing drivers didn't want a bloody and soaking wet man riding shotgun with them, and he couldn't really blame them. Still, it was frustrating.

His head still hurt. Every time he touched it, it bled anew, so eventually he just stopped attempting to tend it. He'd tried to call Dean again too – repeatedly – but his cell phone had finally reached the end of it's life, and it's flame had flickered out.

As the sky finally succumbed to the encroaching darkness, Sam saw the bright, garish lights of the motel sign ahead of him. He sighed with relief. He was dusty, bloody – and still soaking wet. He remembered jeans drying out more quickly than this; although now that he thought about it, it had been a cool day for late Autumn.

He noted the Impala, unique and black as night, parked outside their motel room as he walked up the drive. Sam breathed deeply, immediately soothed; that meant Dean was definitely here. He wasn't going anywhere without his 'baby'. He stood for a moment, pleased and yet readying his lecture for Dean. He'd never left him out in the midst of trouble before; how had this suddenly come about? And why? What could Sam possibly have done to deserve that level of abandonment? He knew Dean wasn't a talker; if there was something bothering him he'd keep it inside, act all tough and yet let it eat him away from within until he could barely function.

He walked up the steps to their motel room and entered, only to find it empty. He sighed in frustration, a frown once again conquering his brow.

It looked as though the room had been tipped upside down. Their stuff was everywhere – strewn across the floor, in piles on Dean's unmade bed, hanging out of drawers. The chest of family photographs and trinkets was open on Sam's bed, and the contents were scattered over the impeccably made divan. Dad's journal was also open on the bed, and pages were torn from the metal rings.

If it hadn't looked even slightly organised, Sam would have suspected that someone had been right through their room and ransacked it. They never let maids in, so anyone who entered other than Sam or Dean would have been an unwelcome intruder. Sam was dangerously alerted to the disorganisation of the room and the damage to the journal and he felt his breathing quicken.

"Dean… What the Hell is going on?

"And how many times have I told you not to go through my things?" he said, picking up a t-shirt of his that was on the floor and folding it. He put it on his bed and frowned. He had the sickening feeling that something was seriously, _critically_ wrong. Within moments, he was heading for the door and thinking of the next place he could go to in search of Dean.

The bar. It was worth checking, after all. Pickings might be slim, but Dean sought comfort in the arms of women he barely knew more often than Sam liked to consider. He knew, deep inside, that it was because his brother had no respect for himself, and that any love – even the most momentary – was enough to make him forget who he was and his self-loathing, even if for no more than an hour.

Sam walked into the bar behind another motel guest, taking the door from him as he walked through and leaving a wet handprint on the glass. The man looked back at the handprint warily and glanced at Sam, looking uncomfortable and edgy. His gaze rapidly moved back into the room and Sam frowned tetchily.

"It's just water. _Sorry_. I've had a bad day.

"I even managed to not bleed on that bit," he said snarkily as he looked back at the handprint. The man either ignored his comment or didn't hear him, as he moved to join two friends on the far left of the bar.

As Sam followed him with his eyes, he caught sight of his brother, nursing the half-empty glass of orange juice.

"Dean! Where've you been?" Sam asked, immediately walking across the carpeted room and sitting down before his brother. Dean did not look up at him; but he did not need to for Sam to notice that the light in his eyes had dimmed. Dean pushed the glass here and there between his fingers, not really paying it much mind – he was attempting to sober up enough to get drunk again.

"Dean? What is it?" Sam asked, worry in his voice and eyes. This wasn't like Dean. _He_ was the emotional one, the one who got moody and drunk when things weighed him down like a man on the cross.

Dean didn't respond. He simply looked back to the bar and took a long drink of the orange juice.

"Are we not talking?" asked Sam, frustration and worry clear in his voice. Dean huffed and shook his head, once again taking a long swig from the orange juice. A thin layer of the drink sat at the bottom of the glass, and Dean looked into it, his eyes hooded.

Sam scanned Dean with his eyes. He looked pale and drawn in ways he'd never seen him before. It frightened him.

"Are you hurt? Did something happen?"

Dean didn't move for a moment. After a time he swallowed and stood, heading back to the bar in what was almost a straight line.

"One more, please. I'm sober now," Dean said to the barman, hanging on the bar like it was all he could do to hold himself up. Sam followed instantly and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration – forgetting his head wound. More spats of blood fell onto his shirt, but it was the last thing on his mind right now.

"Dean, you're scaring the crap out of me. Would you just talk to me? _Please_?"

"You call that sober?" the barman asked, leaning on the bar with both hands.

"It's as sober as I want to be," Dean answered. The barman shook his head.

"You've had so many whiskeys I've lost count. Go to bed. Sleep it off.

"You'll feel better in the morning."

"No. No, I won't!" Dean said, slamming his palm down on the bar angrily.

"Dean! Just…come back to the room. Just talk to me. Please. Whatever's wrong, we can sort it out." Sam had forgotten his own anger and grief at being abandoned at the sight of his brother. He simply couldn't imagine what had happened to make him like this, what had lead to this heavy drinking binge, this breakdown of communication between them.

"You want to just sell me the bottle?" Dean asked, ignoring Sam as he paced at his side.

"I'm not selling you anything else for the next twenty-four hours. Go away and sleep it off," and this time the barman turned his back on Dean and began dealing with another punter.

"Well, this bar sucks anyways! I'll get my own drink!" Dean shouted angrily.

"Dean!" Sam yelled and for a moment Dean flinched. His face paled and he rubbed it quickly, his hand pausing over his mouth.

"Maybe I have had enough to drink…" he said under his breath, and swallowed.

"Finally - the man does have a brain!" Sam exclaimed, raising his arms in hopeless resignation. As Dean stumbled towards the door Sam took it from him, once more leaving a wet handprint on the glass. It caught Dean's attention, and he froze, looking at it for an uncomfortably long time.

"Dean, just go back to the room. We can talk about it there," Sam said quietly, and Dean stepped forward to walk out of the bar and towards their room on the opposite side of the motel lot.

Dean walked in through the door and Sam followed him in. The older Winchester immediately deadlocked the door behind them and moved over to his bed, sitting with his elbows resting on his legs. After a moment, he pushed his face into his hands. Sam sat on his own bed amidst the photos and trinkets and said,

"Now. Are you going to talk to me, or what?"

"Ahh, Sam. Sammy…

"I let you down again," Dean said into his hands. He sniffed, and his breath shook as he exhaled.

"I don't get it. Why did you leave me?" Sam asked gently.

"I didn't mean to. But I never mean to, that's just it. I screw stuff up without _ever _meaning to, but it still gets screwed up."

"Dean… We've both made mistakes. If… If I'd thought about my visions before Jessica…" Sam swallowed before continuing, "then I might have been able to save her."

"I'm just…I'm not…" Dean began, rubbing his tears into the heels of his hands, but not taking them away from his face.

"You're very, very drunk, Dean. I'm okay, you're okay. Just go to bed; it really will seem better in the morning," Sam said. "Although if you think you're getting away with that hangover; Hell no. I'm going to make sure you suffer with it as much as you make me suffer with mine.

"It's not often I get the chance."

Then he added something that he'd learned in recent months; his voice more gentle.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk. You don't have to. It works for me, but for you it doesn't always work, so-"

"What am I without you here?" Dean whispered, his voice shaking. "Nothing I do can make that right. Nothing. Nothing I ever do can make that right."

"I'm right here," Sam said bemusedly. "Dean, you're so drunk it's not even funny anymore." He got off the bed and walked to stand before Dean. His brother sniffed and looked up, wiping his face free of tears.

"I don't want to do this on my own. I can't.

"I just can't," Dean said, and this time his voice was deadpan; a frightening calm had stolen over his brother and suddenly Sam was unnerved, caught off guard by this sudden change. It was like watching Dean in hunter mode; there was a mental switch that he flicked to deal with monsters and spirits and demons, creatures which he'd been raised to hate with a passion.

"Dean?" Sam asked nervously. But either Dean did not hear him, or he chose not to listen as he opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet and withdrew his Colt 1911. He sniffed and closed one eye, looking down the barrel as he held the heavy gun with expert precision. Then he put it to his temple.

"Dean! What are you doing?" Sam asked, frozen and with fear needling like icicles through the back of his brain. Dean took a breath.

"Hi Mom. I'm home," Dean said thinly.

"Dean! Haven't you been listening to me?!" Sam said, panic constricting his voice. He watched as Dean's finger trod restlessly on the trigger, his eyes wide. Dean took a breath, and another, and one more deep breath-

"No!" yelled Sam and leapt forward, smashing the gun from his brother's hand and sending it skidding across the floor. Dean, immediately sobered, leapt to his feet and skittered over his bed, so that he stood between the two divans. His face was ashen.

"…Sammy?"

"What?" asked Sam as he rubbed his face with both hands, his voice broken.

"Sammy… Are you…actually here?"

"Yes! What's wrong with you, can't you see me?"

And suddenly, Sam realised why his clothes hadn't dried out, why he kept bleeding, why nobody had noticed him on the side of the road, why the man had looked so freaked out in the bar…

"Oh my God…

"Oh my God, Dean…

"I'm dead, aren't I?"

For a moment, Sam reeled, unable to take this information in.

"I'm..._dead_? What the…how…?"

Dean still stood between the beds, his eyes wide and his breathing thin, kept all in the upper chest.

"Sam…I don't…

"I don't know if I…want it to be you or not…" Dean said haltingly.

"Oh yeah, because this is a walk in the park for me, too!" Sam exclaimed irritably. He thought as quickly as he could with his mind all a-jumble.

"Can I show myself to you?" he wondered out loud. He looked across the room at the light switch.

"Okay, so I can knock a gun out of your hand. Can I screw with the lights? Can I _drain_ the lights?" he continued to wonder. He closed his eyes and concentrated hard. The lights in the room flickered, and he filled with a sense of rejuvenation – as though he'd had a good night's sleep. He snapped his eyes open, and the lights went out.

"Holy Jesus…" Dean murmured, his eyes fixed squarely on the ethereal figure in front of him. Sam's projection was weak but just visible in the darkness - and he shrugged, an awkward smile on his face. Dean walked forward, his hands over his mouth. Then he laughed – a hollow, empty laugh.

"Oh, this is great. You're a restless spirit. Can I screw this up any more?"

"Dean… It's not your fault. I know you'd have done what you could," Sam said. His words reached Dean through his mind rather than through his ears and Sam saw from the look on his face that this time Dean really did hear him.

"Now what? I'm supposed to shoot you full of salt?" Dean hesitated before continuing,

"I can't…" His eyes filled with tears.

"I can't salt and burn you. I can't.

"You're Sam…My Sammy…"

"So that's why I'm able to come back…" Sam said, and his voice saddened. Dean suddenly sat down on his bed, as though all the strength had gone from his legs. Indeed, his legs felt as though they had been replaced with jelly, and like every inch of the rest of him, they shook.

Sam sat down beside him, blinking softly.

"You're not scared of me, are you?" Sam asked, mocking Dean lightly for the shaking that was impossible to miss.

"Shut up. No, I'm not scared of you. Bitch," Dean forced. Sam smirked.

"Jerk."

They paused for a moment. Sam indicated his seemingly now permanent patch of blood.

"Sorry." Dean simply shook his head and lifted a shaking hand to wave Sam's comment away. Sam looked at a spot on the far wall and fidgeted with his hands. It made Dean heartsick to see something so familiar, and yet under such strange circumstances.

"How did I die, Dean?" Sam asked, his voice weak. Dean looked away, and for a moment, Sam thought he was going to refuse to tell the story. When Dean did speak, his voice was quiet.

"We were out in the boat, trying to get at the Kappa. We still didn't know what the Hell a Japanese water demon was doing in Wisconsin, but we had to kill it. It was killing babies. You'd looked up the lore, and when it came for us you tried bowing to it, but it reacted by drawing back into the lake. It wasn't going to let you spill it's cranial water.

"We got a boat out of the boathouse and rowed it out to the middle of the lake. You were rowing, I was trying to shoot the son of a bitch."

"They hate metal and loud noises, like gunfire," Sam said, before Dean could continue. He nodded, and wiped an errant tear.

"It was one fast son of a bitch. It grabbed one of the oars and tried to pull it out of your hand. You fought it for the oar, and I shot at it. It screamed, pulled the oar right out of your hands and moved away – then came back and clubbed you around the head with the oar.

"God, I was so stupid…" Dean paused for a moment, cradling his head in his hands.

"No more stupid than me," Sam said gently. Dean looked up from his hands once more and sniffed.

"You haven't heard the best bit yet.

"You were knocked right out, and I needed to keep you in the boat and still try to aim at the bastard. It started rocking the boat from underneath; I had hold of you and had to try to figure out a way to kill the son of a bitch when I couldn't see him and still stay in the damn boat.

"I shot at it through the bottom of the boat. It was a gamble, sure; if I missed it, I was getting rid of the only thing keeping us out of the water. And with you away with the faeries, I had to make sure it didn't come to that."

Dean fell silent again. He shook his head; it was plain that it was a difficult story for him to tell. The event had left him bereft of his brother; Sam might have been beside him in spirit form, but no matter how Dean turned it over in his head, there was no way to turn back time, no way to change the past. No way to erase the experience of watching his brother slip away.

"Did you hit it?" Sam asked eventually, his voice quiet. Dean smirked.

"Oh yeah. I hit it all right. Didn't kill the son of a bitch though, it just made it mad.

"I couldn't see to hit it properly. Couldn't shoot to kill.

"It screamed and turned the boat over. I managed to keep ahold of you and drag you under the boat into the air pocket, but you can't fool a water demon that easy. I was treading water, but he…

"He pulled me under. I couldn't keep hold of you _and_ fend it off _and_ shoot it, and I knew that if he got me he'd move on to you anyway...

"So I let you go.

"I let you go." Dean's breath juddered as he covered his mouth, distraught over what he'd just said.

"I wish he'd have drowned the both of us," Dean said brokenly, distress clear on his face. Sam shook his head.

"I don't," he said, rejecting Dean's wish, "I'm glad he didn't."

"It was just…so stupid. It was pathetic, it was Fitchburg all over again, Sam. I fought the son of a bitch off and shot him in the brainpan under the boat but I couldn't get back to you in time. I couldn't find you in the water, even though I dived and dived and dived until I couldn't swim anymore; don't think I gave up, I never gave up on you…"

The words rushed out of Dean like a raging river – Sam had never known Dean to be so open about his experiences. He knew that suddenly Dean was trying to provide evidence for what he had done to find his brother, that he was trying to make Sam realise that he really hadn't given up on him, that he never gave up on him and never would – that the brother who never actually said 'sorry' was saying so now.

And Sam wanted to clap him on the shoulder, or elbow him, or have some kind of physical contact with his brother, anything just to show him that it was okay, that he understood that Dean had done what he could, _everything_ that he could. Sam's own eyes filled with sympathetic tears; he felt awful for leaving Dean in such torment.

Sam clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder but his brother flinched and pulled away – the touch was strange and he was so guilt-ridden that he didn't believe he deserved to be comforted.

Dean was silent as he sat just out of Sam's reach, his face in his hands. The shaking had returned anew. Sam was crushed by the weight of Dean's pain; he knew that Dean was blaming himself for something that, in all truth, could have happened as many as a hundred times before in different situations. Sam knew he'd already be dead several times over without Dean to save him; he'd known all along, as soon as he'd returned to hunting, that he was never going to live to a ripe old age, with cats and babies at his feet.

It wasn't the patented Winchester way.

"Dean…"

"Don't. Just don't," Dean said, his voice thin.

The memory was still all too vivid for the eldest brother. Sam's death had occurred only two days earlier. The memories were like open wounds in his mind; the initial desperation, the diving, reaching down into the murky depths as far as he could until he was moments away from drowning himself. The treading of water until he was so tired that his legs barely kept him above the gentle ripples, until his every muscle was sore from cramp.

He had watched as darkness encroached upon the lake, standing restlessly beside it as the local police dredged it for a body. Sam's body. Dean knew that under no circumstances could any body be left to the ravages of water. There was too much chance of the body's owner coming back, being unable to rest.

It was as the birds twittered in the surrounding trees and as the sky began to turn to shades of pink and yellow that the local divers finally indicated that they had found something. Until that moment, up until that very second, Dean had held out all his hopes that Sam was merely missing – wounded, and holed up somewhere.

He watched with eyes devoid of life as he saw them position what they had found and drag it between them back to shore. There was no mistaking that body – six foot five men were all too rare. He knew that profile even in death; he knew the t-shirt that Sam had been wearing the previous afternoon, knew the flannelette overshirt, the blue jeans now soaking and dark. Knew the habit Sam had of pulling long sleeves up to just below the elbow; it was a habit they shared.

And in those seconds, the world had ended.

"Dean?" Sam said, after a while. The two had been still for a short while; Dean leaning on his legs and Sam sitting awkwardly beside him. Dean looked around at his brother's spirit dully.

"I know what you're going to say.

"Not yet. Sammy, not just yet." Sam said nothing in response, but he did sigh deeply.

"I think you're my unfinished business," Sam said eventually. Dean looked back up at him, the despair on his face deepening – if such a thing were possible.

"So I'm the reason you're still here twice over? Oh, that's great. That's just perfect." Dean shook his head and forced himself to his feet. Sam looked at his brother from the bed as Dean rubbed his face and leaned against the dresser.

"Look, Dean. I don't know why I'm here, not really – but my first concern when I was dragging myself out of that river was you. I just knew you were in trouble, that something was wrong. I thought it was because of the circumstances, but I… I don't know anymore. Maybe it was because of what you just tried to do - which was _really_ stupid, by the way," Sam said, his reprimand solemn.

"Oh, sure, because I-" and Dean cut himself off. He'd exposed enough to Sam already. In some ways this might have been Sam, and in some ways it wasn't – either way, Dean suddenly shut up shop on his emotions.

"Because you what? You don't deserve to live anymore? Because you 'failed' me, because you couldn't protect me? Dean, I told you ages ago that you couldn't protect me from everything. Sure, you tried – and I appreciate that you did, but…

"You've got to let me go…"

"No." Dean shook his head. His response was one hundred percent instinctive and visceral. It was the only answer he had for that statement.

"There's nothing else you can do, Dean. You have to live _because _I can't. Who's going to prevent the end of the world if you're not here? I'll feel safer being dead if you're still here to keep the balance of good and evil," Sam said, and before Dean could open his mouth, Sam raised his hand,

"And yes, you are good. You're sure as Hell not evil. Even you know that.

"You practically brought me up, Dean. You're more than my brother; you were this awesome, protective, loyal force in my life and that won't ever change.

"But now you have to let me go. Let me go, Dean.

"I'm tired."

"_You're_ tired?" Dean asked, and his face twisted into a grimace. He looked at Sam with eyes that spoke of life experience that far exceeded his age. Sam shook his head softly as Dean spoke again.

"You don't get it, do you?

"Without you there _is_ no world, there is nowhere for me to be. I never expected to outlive all of you, Sammy. It was never in my plans to get old, to be the last man standing. I never wanted to bury you; I knew one day I might have to bury Dad, but I always hoped _you'd_ get to bury _me_.

"Now I've got to burn my little brother and put him in the ground? I can't.

"I tried so hard to protect you, and when it came down to it you died because I was stupid. I should have never got you involved in this again, I should have just found Dad on my own. I should never have pulled you out of college. I should have just left you alone and then at least you'd be alive now."

"You don't know that," Sam said softly. "Yellow Eyed Demon wanted what he wanted. If you hadn't come to get me, then he'd have found another way.

"You've pulled me from a burning building twice, Dean. That's not an accident."

"Yeah – I pulled you _out _of the fire; I'm not going to put you _in_ one!" Dean's face wore an indescribable expression as he shouted his answer.

Sam stood and walked across the room to Dean. Dean turned away, unable to face this eerie form of his brother.

"Dean…" Sam said. He waited for Dean to face him, but he was disappointed.

"Dean. I can't rest with you like this.

"I can't just turn it off like a switch. I'm here because somehow I was called here, to you.

"I can't rest now until you salt and burn me. You know that. I know you know that.

"That body isn't me anymore. It looks like me, but all the things that made it me are here, in front of you. It's just one of two things locking me to this earth now, Dean.

"You're the other thing."

Finally, Dean looked back to Sam and rested his eyes on him. Eventually he spoke.

"Way to make me feel like a selfish bastard," Dean said, sniffing and moving past the shadowy form of his brother to pick up the Colt 1911 from the floor where it had fallen. He tucked it into his waistband and headed for the door. He glanced back at Sam, who was watching curiously but had not moved.

"You're not going to make me do this on my own, are you?" Dean said. Sam smiled gently.

"Guess not," Sam said, and walked to where Dean stood.

"Where am I? Sam asked as Dean opened the motel room door onto the chill night. Dean looked out to the Impala.

"Back seat," Dean replied as he headed in that general direction, closing the door behind them.

"I'm in the _car_?" Sam asked incredulously. "A dead body in your _car_?" He pulled a face as he followed.

"Dean? That's kinda nasty."

"You think?" Dean asked, continuing on towards the Impala grimly.

* * *

It took Dean much of the night to build the pyre, and to rest Sam's fabric-bound body on it. It was awkward to do on his own; and despite the weak presence of Sam's spirit he did not feel any better about the act at all. As he finished his arduous and draining work, Dean reached out hesitant fingers towards the bound corpse – but found he could not touch it any more. All the time he'd been shouldering it onto the pyre he'd been able to switch off, to separate his actions from his emotions – but not now. Not now that the last goodbye was so close.

He withdrew to a fallen tree some feet away and sat down. Sam had been sitting on the tree for some time, just watching his brother's work. His form was weaker out here in the open –there were no lights for him to draw power from. Dean had left the engine of the Impala running for a while, so that the shadow-form of his brother could at least draw energy from that.

"It's nice," Sam said, looking at the pyre.

"_Nice_?" Dean asked caustically.

"Well, good then. It's good," Sam said, attempting to correct his earlier error in word choice.

For a while both brothers sat silently. Dean eventually pulled a hip flask out of his back pocket and took a long swig of Dutch courage. The book of matches he'd taken from the motel had fallen to the ground when he pulled out the flask; Dean looked down at them distantly.

"Is this it?" Dean asked, not really of Sam but of the world at large.

"Dean?" Sam asked. Dean looked up at him.

"Promise me. You'll go on. You'll try to be okay and you'll take care of yourself.

"Please…

"It's important to me."

Dean looked away and took another swig from the hip flask. He swallowed with relish and then stood, returning the flask to his back pocket.

"I don't want this to be it, Sam," Dean said picking up the matches from the ground.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't want this to be it. When I light that fire, you're gone. Again. And I'm left here."

"And you'll live," Sam said gently.

"Long enough to regret this?" Dean smirked, tears in his eyes. Sam shook his head and Dean looked away.

"Promise me, Dean. You won't do anything stupid."

"…Fine," Dean said after a pause, fiddling with the book of matches.

"Dean?" Sam asked, unhappy with the delivery of the promise.

"I said fine!" Dean snapped, anger in his voice at being pressed. Sam lifted his hands placatingly.

"Okay."

Dean turned and walked back to the pyre. The matches were like a dead weight as he toyed with them, switching them from hand to hand. He heard Sam's voice beside him and a gentle hand on his shoulder as he finally struck the book – it leapt into flames between his fingers.

"Thank you."

Dean held onto the blazing matchbook until his fingers began to burn – and then, eventually, he cast it onto the pyre. The fire took to the timber immediately, licking across the surface of the dry wood and edging towards the bound corpse.

"Goodbye, Sammy," Dean said, tears spilling down his face as he looked at the spirit of his late brother. Sam smiled gently and gratefully.

"Later, Dean."

And Dean looked away, unable to watch as the spirit of his brother shone brightly beside him before dissipating into fragments carried on a gentle wind into the sky. Instead, his eyes were morbidly fixed on the empty corpse as the fire grew, hungrily consuming both the pyre and it's load.

He watched the fire from the fallen tree until the flames died down, until the ashes smouldered in shades of orange against the slowly brightening sky. He watched until his eyes were sore with the smoke and with his soul-deep tiredness, until he saw the ghost of the embers burned onto the inside of his eyelids when he closed them.

Finally, with birdsong around him and the rim of the sun appearing shyly at the skyline, Dean stood. He'd been drinking periodically from the hip flask, but it was now empty. He slipped it into his back pocket once more – and his hand brushed against the grip of the Colt 1911 at his back. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, thinking deeply for a moment.

He walked back to the Impala, opened the passenger door and got in. Pulling open the glove compartment, he reached inside to grab some motel paper and a pen. He scribbled a brief note before tearing the sheet of paper from the pad and throwing the pen and the rest of the pad back into the glove compartment and slamming it shut.

Dean stepped out of the passenger side and moved around to the driver's side, putting the note in his pocket as he did so. Getting in, he pulled the door shut behind him and relaxed into the seat. He put both hands on the Impala's wide steering wheel, running his hands over the black leather.

Home. The Impala was the only home he'd ever really known, the only physical constant in his life. After his father's death he had poured himself into rebuilding her; it had helped to heal his pain somewhat, had been something to pour himself into. The car had been gifted to him by his father after all; it was Dean's way of keeping him alive.

He touched the Impala's dash lightly, loving care in his gentle caress.

It was time to let go.

With the lid of the trunk up, Dean rifled in the back for the can of lighter fuel he knew was in there somewhere. Eventually he found it and pulled it out. He also removed the bullets from the back of the Impala and hid them inside a hollow in the fallen tree; it wasn't good for them to stay in the car. Bullets fired without a target might end up somewhere they shouldn't be.

Opening a small bag, Dean pulled out a matchbook from a past motel stop and closed the bag again, flinging it carelessly back into the trunk. He slammed down the lid, his fingers lingering on the Impala's sleek black curves.

His emotions hidden away, locked in a Pandora's Box within, Dean looked once more at the one true physical remnant he had of his family. Then he thrust his elbow through one of the rear windows, shattering the glass and scattering it all over the seats within. His face still deadpan, he elbowed out the remaining glass and squirted the lighter fuel into the back of the Impala – across the leather seats he demanded were kept spotless, the rough carpets he kept vacuumed, under the back window that he lovingly cleaned.

It was easier to light the book of matches this time. He had loved her, but not to the extent he'd loved Sam. He'd been devoted to her, but not to the extent he'd been devoted to Sam. He'd protected her, but not to the extent he'd protected Sam.

If he had to let go of Sam, he could let go of her.

Expressionless, Dean threw the book of matches through the open window. There was a subtle roar as the lighter fuel immediately ignited, filling the Impala with blue-yellow flame. Dean watched as the flames took hold, curling the leather and blackening the door panels. He watched as the fire licked hungrily at the roof, escaping through the broken window and bubbling the beloved car's paintwork. He watched as it crept into the driver's cabin, seducing the seats and dashboard.

He turned on the burning car as the fire roared behind him, crawling over and tainting every part of the car he'd grown up in. He walked with deliberate slowness over to the smouldering pyre, looking into it with that same deadpan expression. He blinked slowly, starting to hear pops and bangs from inside the burning Impala, which were inevitably indicators that the fire was reaching the engine. He put his hand in his pocket to check that the note was still there. It was important that whoever found him knew who to contact to get the job done properly.

The note said 'If found dead, please return to Bobby Singer' followed by his phone number.

With that, Dean withdrew the Colt 1911 from his waistband. He weighed it briefly in his hands and smiled ruefully. Put it to his temple. Pulled back the hammer.

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he reopened his eyes, there was no grief in them, no pain – just a quiet longing.

"I never broke any promise to you, Sam, but this one.

"I'm sorry," he said, and squeezed the trigger.

Behind him and above him, the birds fled from the trees in panic, as the fire reached the Impala's petrol tank and blew out her heart in mimicry of Dean's own action.

The smoke lingered in the wind for hours on that cold morning in Wisconsin.

-Fini-

* * *

_Sorry guys – they won't all be this depressing, I promise! I'm working on a multi-parter that should be finished in a few weeks and will probably be posted weekly over the summer. It'll be finished before I start posting, but let me know if there's something you'd particularly like to see in future fics – I'm open to ideas ;)_

_Thank you very, very much for your time. It's most appreciated :)_


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